Whither the Fates Call
by storylover18
Summary: John pays his respects to a fallen comrade. Rated T for war scenes, language.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hello, everyone. This is a story that was inspired mostly by _Dust in the Flicker-Light_, both her story about Remembrance Day, plus a conversation we have going at the moment. It's been really heavy on my heart and I just had to write it. Enjoy! **

It was March 17.

John's brain registered the thought before he had even opened his eyes. It was March 17, 2012.

It had been three years.

John got up while it was still dark. He ate a quiet breakfast and washed it down with a cup of tea. The paper was sitting on the table – Sherlock must've gotten it – but John wanted to get going.

Back upstairs and moving aside clothes and shoes, John pulled a small metal box from the back of his closet. He tucked it under his arm as he went downstairs again, where he shrugged on his coat.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked from the kitchen.

"Out. I'll be back."

John didn't wait for Sherlock's response. He didn't want to talk.

Walking out into the cold London morning, John allowed himself to be swept away by the commuters. He soon found himself in Hyde Park – not his final destination, but part of the journey, perhaps – and walked the trails for awhile.

The sun rose and it warmed the air a bit, but the wind still whipped around his face and he dug his one hand deeper into his pocket. The other was still clutching the box.

Eventually, maybe around lunch time, John found himself where he had meant to end up. The cemetery.

Walking among the tombstones, John searched for a simple, humble stone cross. He found it, knowing exactly where it was, and looked down at the carved marker.

Christopher Albert Peters

Born May 10, 1979

Died March 17, 2009

Faithful to the End

John swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat before sitting down on the frozen ground. He didn't care it was cold, he didn't care his pants would get wet.

John set the metal box in front of him. He hadn't opened the box since he met Sherlock and had decided today was the day to do so.

John reached in and pulled out the first thing his hand came in contact with. His cap badge. John studied the shiny badge, running his fingers over the embroidered emblem. He set it on the ground and reached into the box again.

A set of epaulets, each with 3 brass stars on them.

A set of dog tags, his. Captain John H. Watson. Service Number 262351. Blood Type O+.

John studied these longer than he had done with the epaulets or cap badge. These were the very essence of his past self. He kept them clutched in his hand as he reached in for the next item.

A note personally signed from the commander of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. John had received it the day he was released from the Her Majesty's Armed Forces. He opened it and tears formed in his eyes.

…_honour and courage till the end … sacrificing himself for a comrade … never be forgotten … _

John set the letter down carefully before emptying the box, removing from the bottom a photograph folded around a second set of tags.

These tags read Captain Christopher A. Peters. Service Number 291737. Blood Type B+.

John turned them over and over in his hands, closing his eyes.

* * *

"Are you ready, John?" Christopher had asked from across the small office. John pulled on the last of his webbing and picked up his medical kit.

"Ready."

Together, the two medical officers joined the patrol by the front gate. After listening to the Major's instructions, they fell to the rear of the party and walked slowly behind.

They allowed for ten paces between themselves and the last member of the patrol and walked on opposite sides of the road. John's eyes were trained on the ground, just like they had taught them in training, scanning for unusual looking objects.

A whizzing noise sounded and there was utter confusion. Snipers. Bullets flying. The patrol hit the ground in one swift movement, the active soldiers pulling out their weapons.

John stayed where he was, awaiting directions from the Major. He could see Christopher across the road.

"You okay?" Christopher mouthed and John gave a firm nod. He pointed a finger back and Christopher nodded as well.

"Medic!"

Both Christopher and John sprung into actions. There were still bullets sailing through the air and the two officers crawled on their bellies to the voice.

They reached the soldier at the same time, just as another call came out.

"You go. I've got him." John said, pulling gauze out from his kit bag.

"You sure?"

"Yes." John's eyes didn't leave what he was doing, although he saw Christopher crawl away from the corner of his eye.

"You'll be fine." John assured the corporal as he wrapped the arm. "It's a flesh wound. I'll be back, don't move. Stay down."

John left the corporal's side and began following Christopher on his belly.

There was a deafening noise. John ducked his head under his arm, shielding his eyes from the debris. Screaming. Someone was screaming. Someone was screaming John's name.

John pushed his helmet up, trying to find Christopher's voice. It was him who was calling.

The medic saw his partner lying several feet away, across a ditch. John didn't hesitate. He got to his feet and took a flying leap across the ditch, landing next to Christopher.

"You'll be fine." John said, automatically. However, as his eyes worked their way down Christopher's body, he saw he was wrong. Christopher's legs were gone, blown off by the landmine, and he could see flesh, bone, and muscle.

"It's okay." John said, digging through his medical kit for gauze. Christopher's shaky hand came up and landed on John's.

"It's my time, John." He said breathlessly. John did not stop looking for gauze.

"John, it's alright." Christopher said, his voice starting to fade. Finally, John looked up and into the pale, sweaty face of his best friend.

"No, it's not, damn it!" John returned to frantically searching through his bag. Christopher's hand re-appeared and John stopped when their hands met. He looked Christopher in the eyes.

"Whither the Fates call." Christopher whispered as John pulled his head onto his lap. Christopher died in John's arms.

Knowing that he couldn't leave Christopher's body, John ordered himself to get control of himself. He was a soldier. He had a job to do.

Hoisting Christopher's body onto his shoulders, John stood up and prepared to leap the ditch again. He took a running start. The next thing John knew, he was on the other side of the ditch, lying on the dirt road. Christopher's body was next to him and there was a searing pain in his left shoulder.

"Watson!" a voice from above him called out. John was vaguely aware of machine gun fire and then he blacked out.

* * *

When John opened his eyes, he realized he was weeping. His shoulders were shaking and his face was wet.

Christopher had been his best friend. They had worked along side each other since day one of basic training. They could read the other's next action and had never lost a patient under their joint care.

And he had died in John's arms.

John ran his fingers over the dog tags again before opening up the photograph. He saw Christopher's smiling face, his smiling face, and their arms around each other. John uttered a small smile through his tears. He knew what he came here to do.

Moving so that he was kneeling, John began to dig a hole at the base of the stone cross with his fingers. It didn't have to be deep or big, but just enough. When he was ready, John laid the photograph and the dog tags in the earth before covering them with soil again.

Wordlessly, John repacked his metal box and stood with it tucked under his arm left arm. He studied the grave one more time before checking his shoulders and raising his right hand in salute.

"Whither the Fates call."

"**Whither the Fates call" is the motto of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. **

**Thank you to all those who have served, to those who sacrificed themselves, and to those who are serving. Lest we forget. **


End file.
